Demilitarization
by taralkariel
Summary: Sequel to The Good Soldier. With some of his memories returning, James Buchanan Barnes goes to Avenger's Tower to see Steve Rogers and try to figure out who he is, who Steve is, and what his place in the world should be.
1. I was alone, falling free

**A/N: Sequel to the Good Soldier. I'd recommend reading that first, but you'll probably be fine if you start here :) Enjoy! Chapter titles are from Meds by Placebo. Because I can't listen to it without thinking of Bucky and Steve. The points of view will be switching between the two of them, which I hope won't be confusing. Let me know :)**

**1\. I was alone, falling free**

_"__Remember when I made you ride the roller coaster at Coney Island?"_

_ "__Yeah, and I threw up?" Steve replied, grimacing at the memory._

_ "__This isn't payback for that, is it?"_

_ "__Why would I do that?"_

_Steve smiled at him, teasing. He couldn't bring himself to smile back. He shifted his weight, and stared down at the train tracks far below. His gaze followed the zip line up the distance to where it was attached above his head. He took a deep breath. He had told Steve he would follow him anywhere. This wasn't exactly what he had in mind, but there wasn't anyone else he would rather follow._

_ "__We were right. Dr. Zola's on the train," Jones said, reporting what he was hearing on the radio. Steve and Bucky turned to face him. "Hydra gave them permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad."_

_Bucky looked at Steve. His friend met his eye, resolute, determined to eradicate this threat. He hadn't told Steve about what had happened during his time as a prisoner of war. He hadn't told him that Zola had performed experiments on him. He had no idea how much Steve guessed, but the look on his face convinced him that his friend knew more than he had let on. The look on Steve's face was questioning, and he nodded in response. He was ready. Steve put on his helmet, and turned back to face the train tracks._

_ "__Let's get going because they're moving like the devil," Farnsworth said, looking through his binoculars._

_Steve tossed the harness over the zip line and caught it in his other hand. "We've only got about a ten second window," he called to the men. "You miss that window, we're bugs on a windshield."_

_ "__Mind the gap," Farnsworth recommended._

_ "__Better get moving, bugs," Dugan said dryly._

_Bucky took his place behind Steve, Jones following him. He gripped the ropes tightly in both hands and stood ready. When the train came into view, Steve jumped from the cliff, sliding down the long line. He waited half a beat, then jumped after him. The wind rushed by his ears deafeningly, and the cold shocked his face. He kept his eyes on Steve, dropping moments after his friend onto the roof of the train._

_Jones dropped behind, and the three of them moved quickly and carefully forward, crouching close to the surface to reduce their wind resistance. Steve found a ladder that reached the roof, and climbed quickly down it. Bucky followed, leaving Jones behind to keep watch. Steve yanked open the door next to the ladder and jumped inside, Bucky quick behind him. He pulled the door shut as they took stock of their surroundings._

_The car was about twenty-five feet long, with railings along the sides and nothing else except by the doors, where a few crates were piled. In the middle of the car was shelving containing cargo. Most of the cargo was long metal boxes of varying size. There was no one immediately evident, though the noise they had made must surely have been noticed. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder and cleared both sides of the car. Steve walked on into the next car and, before he could follow, a door slid shut between them._

_He paused only a moment, then whipped around and starting firing as three men entered the opposite end of the car. One man was down. He took cover behind a pile of cargo on the right side of the car, and took aim. He fired repeatedly, not entirely certain where his assailants were hiding. Out of ammo, he pulled out his pistol and fired that as well, crossing to the other side of the car. Another man was down._

_A resounding hollow click was the only sound when he aimed at the final man. He turned around and pressed his back against the box, catching his breath and considering his options. He had known what following Steve would mean. He had hoped it wouldn't happen this soon, but it didn't change his choice. The door opened suddenly and Steve was standing there, holding out a pistol. He tossed the weapon to Bucky, who caught it deftly and gave him a nod of thanks. Steve ran into the room and pushed the cargo on the right side of the middle platform, forcing the last man to jump out of the way and into Bucky's line of sight. He took him down with one shot._

_He left his cover and joined Steve, looking down at the men to be sure they were no longer a threat. "I had him on the ropes," he asserted._

_ "__I know you did," Steve replied, glancing at him. He didn't smile, but he looked amused, no doubt remembering previous encounters where their roles had been switched._

_There was a strange sound behind them, and Bucky whipped around. A masked man in black leather was aiming two weapons at them, one in each hand. They glowed blue and the glow was increasing as the sound grew in pitch. "Get down!" Steve cried, lifting his shield. Bucky moved behind Steve and the shield, and was thrown back when the blast hit them._

_It may have only been a moment, but it took some effort to get his bearings. He lay on his belly on the floor of the train, on the left side, and Steve had been thrown against the wall on the right. He wasn't moving. Wind whistled past his head. A significant portion of the wall had been blown out. Their attacker was charging the weapon again. Bucky saw the shield laying within his reach and jumped to his feet, lifting it to protect himself while he got off a few shots, though they appeared to have no effect._

_The weapon finished charging and the blast knocked him off his feet and out through the gaping hole in the wall. He managed to catch onto the warped railing and clung to the wall, the wind pushing him against the surface. It was moving erratically as the train sped on. _

_ "__Bucky!" Steve yelled. _

_He looked up to see his friend at the edge of the train, climbing out to meet him. He pulled himself upward and began to move slowly along the twisted metal toward Steve._

_ "__Hold on!" Steve called, nearly halfway along the wall fragment. "Grab my hand!" he shouted over the wind, extending his gloved hand as far as he could._

_Bucky moved as close as he was able and let go of the railing with his right hand to reach out. He had almost made contact when the metal gave in and broke away from the wall. "No!" he screamed, hearing Steve echo the cry as he fell away._

* * *

He awakes in a cold sweat, breathing hard. His throat hurts. He has probably been screaming again. Disoriented, he sits up sharply and, lacking another weapon, holds his arms tense and ready at his sides. A light turns on and he sees that he is in a large room, on a bed in the center. There is a desk and some other furniture in the room. His inspection ceases when he sees the man sitting in the desk, having just turned the light on, looking at him.

"You're safe here, James," the man said. His tone is not particularly gentle, but matter-of-fact and somehow soothing

The man… His thoughts circle. Steve! He remembers suddenly. He relaxes his taut muscles and slows his labored breaths. "Where are we?" he asks, tentatively.

"Avengers Tower."

The name means nothing to him. He looks around slowly. The room is becoming familiar, but not overly so. "Why?"

A flicker of pity crosses the man's, Steve's, face. "You came to find me. You were in my room, in here, waiting for me when I came home a few hours ago. Do you remember?"

He considers. "I remember falling," he says at last.

Steve looks at him intently. "You do? From the train?"

After a pause, he nods. "I think so."

"Is that what you were dreaming about?"

"I guess," he shrugs, not wanting to discuss it further.

Steve sits back, reclining in the chair. "Do you want to go back to sleep?"

"Okay," he replies and lies back down. He closes his eyes and the light turns off again.


	2. Trying my best not to forget

**A/N: Thanks for all the immediate feedback :) Enjoy chapter 2! As with the previous story, flashbacks are not in chronological order.**

**2\. Trying my best not to forget**

_He was standing on a fifteen by fifteen mat, shirtless, arms held up in a defensive stance. The other man stood calmly on the other side of the mat, dressed in body armor; red hair, five foot ten, one hundred ninety pounds, early thirties. He was waiting, assessing the soldier. In the blink of an eye, he had pulled out a knife and rushed forward. The soldier hastened to block the attack with his new mechanical arm. The knife glanced off of it harmlessly, and he used the other man's brief moment of distraction to override his guard and get in a few blows. He withdrew quickly and backed away._

_The two men circled each other. The confidence exhibited by the other man was diminished after the soldier had been able to attack him. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he assessed the soldier. For his part, the soldier was assessing, as well. There were no gaps in the body armor. His blows had made little impact on it, as he had used his right arm. He considered how to use his left hand instead, but would likely have to use it to block the knife._

_Without warning, the soldier jumped forward and kicked the knife out of the man's hand. He used his momentum to hit the man in the head with his metal fist. The man dropped like a stone. He backed away quickly and picked up the knife where it had fallen. He held it in his right hand, and advanced on the other man, who was stirring. _

_"__Winter Soldier, stand down," a voice crackled overhead._

_He tightened his grip on the knife and stopped walking, but shifted his weight as he cocked his head and looked at the man on the floor. He took a step forward._

_"__Winter Soldier! Stand down!" the voice repeated._

_The doors behind him flew open and several men in battle gear rushed in and surrounded him. They leveled their guns at him while two more dragged the other man out of the room. He stood calmly, arms relaxed at his sides. His eyes slowly tracked from man to man, through a curtain of hair. He could see the fear on their faces as they watched him, bodies tense and ready. Some were sweating, struggling to keep a grip on their rifles._

_"__Drop the knife," one of them said. He was the least intimidated of the group. The soldier tightened his grip on the handle for a moment, then threw it downward. Its point stuck deep in the mat at his feet. He looked up at the men who had given the order, eyes narrowed, and the man took an involuntary step back._

_"__Stand away from him," a new voice said. A man had appeared in the doorway, wearing a white lab coat over an olive drab uniform. He was five foot five, one hundred sixty pounds, and late forties. He was nearsighted, and squinted into small glasses. The soldier stared at him. He was familiar, somehow. The men moved away and he stood motionless, watching the man approach. "You must learn to obey orders, Soldier," the man told him._

_"__Must I?" the soldier asked ominously._

_The man glared at him. "If you ever want to leave this compound again, you will. Prepare the machine," he said, directing his attention toward the two men returning from dragging the first man away._

_The soldier looked at the knife at his feet and considered. He was not dressed like the others, wearing only thin trousers. His metal arm would be useful, but he had a lot of exposed skin and knew he couldn't move fast enough to evade everyone in the room. The knife would be of limited usefulness, as the men would surely move far enough away to require him to throw it. And then be without it._

_He acquiesced to being led out of the room. Four men walked in front of him, and four were behind. No one walked beside him. The little man who was oddly familiar was leading the group. They reached a small room containing little but a chair in the center and a great deal of technological equipment. It made the room look smaller than it was. Somehow, the soldier felt an increasing sense of dread as he entered the room. He glanced around quickly, but the situation had not become any more survivable._

_"__Sit down, Soldier," ordered the little man._

_He looked around again, but there was only one exit to the room, and now the eight guards who had escorted him filled the passage. He inhaled deeply, glared at the little man, and sat down in the chair. He felt immediately like he was suffocating and he was about to jump out again when heavy manacles closed over his upper arms and wrists. He pulled against them briefly, but was trapped._

_"__Open your mouth."_

_The little man stood before him, easily within kicking range. He held a piece of wood. There were teeth marks in it. He swallowed hard. The other men in the room had drawn closer and were well-armed. He presented an easy target, sitting there, trapped. He opened his mouth. The piece of wood was placed perpendicularly over his tongue and he bit down. Something was lowered over his head, covering his face. An intense panic took him. He had been here before. He did not want to be here again._

_He kicked and threw his body against the restraints, but nothing changed. His feet made no contact with anyone or anything, and even his mechanical arm could do nothing about the manacles. He was afraid to move his head and upset the metal contraption. Light flashed before his eyes as sparks connected on the surface around his head. He bit down hard on the wooden gag as the electricity invaded his brain. Screams were dragged out of him and he felt as though his very soul was being ripped away._

* * *

_He lay on the floor, flesh arm wrapped around his body. His other arm was cold and he didn't like the feeling of it touching him. There was a cot in the room for him to sleep on, but he didn't like it, either. It reminded him of something unpleasant. He was cold on the concrete floor, but couldn't bring himself to move. Even when he heard the tramp of boots in the hallway and a key turning in the lock, he did not stir._

_Yellow light flooded the chamber as the door opened. He heard whispers. It didn't seem important. Nothing did. He closed his eyes against the light and waited, with little interest, for whatever they would do._

_"__Sergeant Barnes," an accented voice surprisingly near to him brought him back to the present. _

_He opened his eyes and looked up. A blond little man stood before him, wearing a lab coat and small glasses. Beyond, at the doorway, he could see another man. He was larger and had red hair. He focused with difficulty on the man who addressed him. "What?"_

_"__My name is Armin Zola. Do you remember me?" the man asked, looking down at him intently._

_He cocked his head. The name rattled around in his brain but didn't latch onto anything. "No," he said slowly._

_The other man frowned. He glanced at the man in the doorway, who shrugged, then turned back to the man on the floor. "Get up."_

_He waited a moment, considering the command. Then he climbed unsteadily to his feet, leaning left so the contraption in place of his arm did not rest against him. His head swam and he closed his eyes, clenching his teeth._

_"__Come with me." The little man had looked at him appraisingly, then turned and walked out the door. He followed slowly, noting that the redheaded man waited for him to pass, then brought up the rear of their little party. Walking was difficult. When had he last used his legs? Remembering anything outside of that chamber was difficult. His thoughts slid by and he couldn't catch onto any of them. Disconnected, meaningless images crossed his mind, but did not do anything to help him understand what was happening._

_They had reached a room that was roughly four times the size of his cell. There was a gurney in the center of the room. There were various tables and other oddments adorning the walls. After seeing the first one, he quickly decided he didn't want to look at any more. He knew exactly what the purpose of this room was, and he desperately didn't want to know. _

_When he stopped walking, the redheaded man took him by the right arm and pulled him into the room and up to the gurney. "He's remembering," the man said to the other._

_"__We had better increase the dosage, then," the first man, Zola, said thoughtfully._

_"__It doesn't seem like he's taking it well," the redheaded man said gruffly._

_"__Fine. Maybe we will have to alter the procedure when he comes out. Make it a more positive memory. Get him to lie down."_

_The redheaded man pushed him roughly onto the gurney, holding it still with one arm. He lay back, listening to his heart pound in his chest and breathing heavily. Zola walked up to him holding a syringe. The two men exchanged a glance, and the larger of the two threw his weight across his chest. Zola pressed the needle under the skin of his arm and he hissed as the fluid inside entered his body. It was cold. His body began to shake uncontrollably and the large man on his chest had a hard time keeping him there._

_The moment passed and he lay still, exhausted. The men stood a few feet from him, watching him, taking notes. He squeezed his eyes shut. "Do you still have hope, Sergeant, of leaving this place? Of being rescued?" Zola asked._

_"__No," he whispered._

_"__Who would rescue you?" the redheaded man pressed._

_"__I don't know," he replied, voice barely audible._

_The men looked at each other and nodded, seeming pleased. He didn't understand._


	3. What happened to us, what happened to me

**A/N: Thanks for all the great feedback on the first two chapters! The last one was heavily influenced by the Queen's Thief series by Megan Whalen Turner, so, if you want to be emotionally invested in someone kinda like Bucky, check those out :) And now for Steve's POV! Enjoy!**

**3\. What happened to us, what happened to me**

"Remember when I made you ride the roller coaster at Coney Island?" Bucky asked, eyeing the crevasse before them dubiously.

"Yeah, and I threw up?" Steve replied, grimacing at the memory.

"This isn't payback for that, is it?"

"Why would I do that?" Steve asked, smiling at his friend. Bucky met his eye, but did not smile as he looked at their destination, far below, eyes following the rope they would use to zip line down to the train. Steve followed his gaze and inspected their handiwork. It looked sturdy enough.

The rest of the Howling Commandos were arranged behind them, preparing. Farnsworth looked through his binoculars for the approaching train, Jones and Morita dealt with the radio. Dugan was preparing the harnesses they would use to reach the train.

"We were right. Dr. Zola's on the train," Jones reported. Steve turned to face him, vaguely aware of Bucky mimicking his action. "HYDRA gave them permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad," Jones continued.

Steve looked at Bucky. He could see the apprehension in his eyes, though he tried to hide it, and he nodded resolutely. Steve knew that he had more reason to be concerned than anyone else. It was gratifying that Buck was willing to do this with him, just because he had asked him to. There was no one he would trust more at his side.

"Let's get going because they're moving like the devil," Farnsworth said.

Steve walked forward to the edge of the outcropping on which they all stood. He tossed the harness over the zip line and caught it in his other hand, feet spread and ready to jump. "We've only got about a ten second window," he called. "You miss that window, we're bugs on a windshield."

"Mind the gap," Farnsworth recommended.

"Better get moving, bugs," Dugan said dryly.

Bucky and Jones took their places behind him. He looked intently at the closest part of the train tracks, waiting. When the train came into view, he jumped forward. The wind whistled past and he gritted his teeth against the cold. He focused his attention on the train, waiting until it was beneath him, then he let go. He pressed himself to the surface and listened for the sound of Bucky and Jones dropping behind him.

When they were all accounted for, he motioned and they walked forward, moving low to the roof so they would not be swept off by the strong wind. He looked carefully around until he saw a ladder to his right. He climbed down it, and was pleased to find a door to its left. He wrenched it open and jumped inside, Bucky right behind him.

Bucky pulled the door closed and they took in their environment. The train car was about twenty-five feet long, with metal tubing running about three feet up along each side. A railing, he supposed. There were aisles on either side, with shelving in the middle, containing long metal boxes. Some crates were on either side of the doors. Glancing at Bucky, who held his rifle ready, Steve headed in the direction of the engine.

He had just stepped into the next car when doors on the end of each car slammed shut behind him, separating them. He whipped around to try to rejoin his friend, but footsteps behind him drew his attention away from the door. A man wearing all black leather, a mask, and some kind of tank on his back was stepping into the opposite doorway. He raised his arms, a weapon in each hand, and a loud noise increased in frequency as the apparatus glowed brighter blue.

Steve lifted his shield and blocked the blast, dodging and running down the aisle. He fired on him a few times with his pistol, but had no effect. Surveying his surroundings, he jumped up and slid down a rack on the ceiling, blocking with his shield, which he then threw and knocked the man down. He used the man's weapon to destroy the door, and hurried back to the next car and looked through the window. Bucky was taking cover just inside, looking desperate. Out of ammo. Steve opened the door and tossed him his pistol. Then he ran inside and pushed the metal cases on the right side of the car, forcing the remaining assailant out of his hiding place for Bucky to shoot.

"I had him on the ropes," Bucky told him as they stood side by side to survey Bucky's handiwork.

"I know you did," Steve assured his friend, amused at their reversal of roles. The sounds of the weapon being readied behind them sobered him quickly, and he whipped around. "Get down!" he ordered, holding up his shield to protect both of them from the blast.

He lay on the ground, having hit the wall of the train. The noise of wind rushing through a hole in the wall was deafening. He opened his eyes to see Bucky getting to his feet and pick up the shield, firing on their assailant. His shots certainly hit, but the man seemed unaffected as he discharged the weapon again. Steve watched in horror as Bucky was thrown back against the damaged wall of the train, dropping the shield and disappearing outside.

Steve jumped to his feet and ran to his shield, throwing it with all his strength at the other man, who flew backward. He quickly ran to the edge of the train, throwing off his helmet to see better. "Bucky!" he cried, seeing his friend clinging to the twisted metal. "Hang on," he shouted over the noise as he climbed carefully out, using the joints in the wall as footholds. Bucky was unable to do the same, and hung by his arms, holding the railing. He moved closer to Steve all the same, and Steve stretched his arm toward him. "Grab my hand!"

The shift in Bucky's weight upset the tenuous connection the railing had with the wall. When he stretched his hand toward Steve, it fell away. And so did Bucky. "No!" Buck screamed, the word torn from his throat and ripped away by the wind. Steve stared down in disbelief, then clung to the train and cried.

* * *

He hadn't known how much time had passed before Jones came to find him. He had coaxed Steve back into the train, but the rest of the mission had passed like a blur. He had been vaguely aware of their success in capturing Zola. It had fallen to him to write a report of the events. There were always reports to write. But not like this. When he had finished, he had gone to the bar. It had been damaged during his mission, but there was still alcohol.

He couldn't get drunk. His metabolism was too fast now. He thought back to the procedure, to meeting Dr. Erskine and getting involved in all of this. Had it all been worth it? He had saved Bucky – once. He might have died in that POW camp if he hadn't gone to rescue him. But he might not have. He might have survived the war and come home, finally come home. Something neither of them had gotten to do.

Peggy had come to talk to him, to convince him it wasn't his fault. But it was. Bucky had been willing to follow him because of who _he_ was, not because it was what Bucky wanted to do. If he hadn't asked him to join the Commandos, he might have gone home. He would have probably survived the war. It was almost over by that point, anyway. And he could have lived his life, just as Peggy had.

Steve looked down at the unconscious man in the bed. His hair was long and unkempt, his face unshaven. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his expression was one of vague distress. He couldn't see the metal arm he now possessed, but he knew it was there. He had read the file. He knew his friend had lost the arm. He realized that the Bucky he knew was gone, possibly forever. But it was his fault that the man before him had been tortured and mutilated. It was his fault he now had nowhere to go.

Soon, the man who had been Bucky would wake up. He wasn't ready for that. He wasn't ready to see his best friend confused and disoriented, unsure of whom or what he was. He wasn't ready to coax him and ache for him to recognize Steve as a friend. He had no idea what he would be like when he awoke. If he would fight him, try to run, or be docile and quiet, as he had been when he'd woken from a bad dream during the night.

Steve contemplated how it would be, day to day, trying to help Bucky remember, or cope, or just exist. He knew he couldn't do it alone. He had slept for seventy years, and been hailed a hero. He had no idea what it would be like, to live with what the Winter Soldier had done. Bucky would be resistant, might challenge him or anyone else who tried to come close, but Steve Rogers never backed down from a fight.


	4. What happened as I let it slip

**A/N: As always, thanks for the great reviews! I love hearing how I'm doing :) Another Steve chapter. He can remember things in a different way from Bucky, so I hope it's not too confusing switching from flashbacks to the present, since I'm not changing the format as drastically.**

**4\. What happened as I let it slip**

He climbed into the pilot's chair, hastily reading the dials in front of him. There was nothing but ice in front of him for many miles. But after that… The Red Skull was gone. He'd defeated HYDRA, as he had promised to do when Bucky… The threat remained. Innocent people would still die by the thousands if he didn't get this plane down. He looked ahead, watching the sun come up over the horizon, glinting off the smooth water and ice below, and took a deep breath.

"Come in, this is Captain Rogers. Do you read me?" he said into the radio.

"Captain Rogers, what is you lo-" he heard Morita's voice crackle back before being interrupted by Peggy.

"Steve, is that you? Are you alright?" she asked.

"Peggy!" he said, slightly relieved. "Schmidt's dead."

"What about the plane?" Her voice was calm enough, but he could hear the worry in her voice.

He tried different switches, but the machine was unlike any he had used before. He paused at her question, exhaling. "That's a little tougher to explain," he said at last.

"Give me your coordinates. I'll find you a safe landing site."

Peggy, always pragmatic. She always had a solution. But there were still six bombs on the plane. "There's not going to be a safe landing. But I can try to force it down."

"I – I'll get Howard on the line; he'll know what to do," she faltered.

"There's not enough time. This thing's moving too fast and it's heading for New York," he told her resolutely. He paused, pressing his lips together, considering what he was about to say. "I've got to put her in the water."

"Please, don't do this. W-we have time. We can work it out," she begged, her voice still calming even when she was pleading. She was an amazing woman.

"Right now I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are going to die." His voice was steady, determined, like it always was when he gave orders. He took a deep breath. "Peggy, this is my choice," he echoed her words back to her. Words she'd given him to ease the pain of losing Bucky. She didn't reply, but he knew she'd understood. He pulled out his compass and placed it on the dash in front of him, so he could see her face. One last time. Then he pushed the control yoke forward and the plane plunged downward.

He looked over at the compass, at Peggy. "Peggy."

"I'm here," she murmured.

"I'm going to need a rain check on that dance," he said.

There was a pause. "Alright." Another pause. "A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club."

"You got it," he promised.

"Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late. Understood?" she insisted.

"You know, I still don't know how to dance."

"I'll show you how," she said, voice cracking briefly. "Just be there."

"We'll have the band play something slow," he said as the view of the ground grew larger and larger outside the window. "I'd hate to step on your –" Then there was noise and metal twisting and glass breaking, and cold. Very cold.

* * *

He had lain down. There was nothing else he could do; the instrument panel was shattered. Water was rushing into the cockpit. So he had left the chair and let the frigid ocean overtake him. He had thought about Peggy, and hoped she would be able to cope with this. She had helped him through so much. It was strange to think of never seeing her again.

He thought of his men: Dugan, Morita, Jones, Farnsworth, Dernier. Their mission was completed. They were good soldiers, but would be happy to go home. They had served their countries well, and deserved a rest. He hoped they would enjoy the peace they had all fought so hard to secure.

Finally, he thought of Bucky. Was this how it felt, falling into that frozen river? Or had he not survived long enough to feel that? He could still see his friend falling away from him, into that dark abyss. Well, now he was falling into it, too. Maybe he would see him there. They were just a couple more kids from Brooklyn who would never go home.

* * *

He hadn't died. He'd slept for decades in the ice. While he was sleeping, his best friend was being turned into a weapon, waiting for Steve to come save him again. But he hadn't. Steve had been awakened, brought abruptly into a world vastly different from the one he remembered. He'd served SHIELD, because it had been Peggy's. He'd made new allies, new men to fight at his side, but still ached for those who had been replaced. People were different now. He didn't fit. He had thrown himself in, had served, but it wasn't the same. We can't go back, Peggy had told him. But he wanted to.

She had lived her life, gotten married, had children and grandchildren. She hadn't forgotten him, was overjoyed to see him again, but she was lost to him. Talking to her was difficult. She lost focus and forgot that she had seen him before. He ached to have someone to talk to, someone who understood. The conversations with her were, at least, bittersweet. They only served to remind him how much he had lost. It would have been better if they had left him there, in the frozen plane.

Peggy had forgotten him. His best girl. And now so had his best friend. The world remembered Captain America. There were cards and toys and museum exhibits. But no one remembered Steve Rogers, the little guy who wanted so badly to serve his country that he was willing to try anything to get into the war.

* * *

Steve was pulled from his dark thoughts abruptly. The sun was shining in through the closed shades, illuminating the room. Bucky was stirring. He thought he was waking up at first, but it quickly became clear that he was not. His body was tense and he was going to start screaming again. As a soldier, he was no stranger to the men screaming. Steve leaned forward and shook his left shoulder roughly, remembering guiltily what he'd done to the right one. The man twisted and jumped off of the bed, backing into the closest corner, a loud stream of unintelligible Russian escaping his mouth. His eyes were wide and he held his arms up to defend himself.

"Easy, easy," Steve said, holding up his hands.

Bucky stared at him intently, brow furrowed. "Steve," he said at last, relaxing slightly.

"Yeah, it's me." He waited to see what the other man would do, and hated the hunted-animal look he wore.

"I came to find you," Bucky said slowly. Steve nodded. "That was my mission," he explained. He looked around the room thoughtfully. "I was successful," he said, voice slightly rising at the end, questioning.

"Yes, you completed the mission," Steve told him, ignoring the pain in his chest.

Bucky nodded, firmly, like a soldier, perusing the room again. "What's my mission now?" he asked tentatively, meeting Steve's eye.

Steve took a deep breath. "Remembering who you are, my friend."


	5. I was confused by the powers that be

**A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing! Back to Bucky :)**

**5\. I was confused by the powers that be**

_His arm got hot sometimes. He couldn't wear anything over it for long, especially if he was going to be using it. He was always using it; it was his best weapon. Though he never went on missions with just a metal arm to defend himself, he often returned from them that way. It got cold, too. If he was on a mission overnight, it was… unpleasant to wake up to. He was not often permitted to sleep, even if the mission lasted a few days. He could sleep when he was done._

_ He was grateful to have it. He knew, vaguely, that he had lost his real arm. Other people did not have a metal arm; only he did. He didn't know what had happened to make him this way, but it didn't matter. It was a great asset in any combat situation, and those were the only situations he knew. His speed, his training, made him a threat, but the arm made him unstoppable. He had never failed a mission._

* * *

_He was waiting patiently in the back of the vehicle. The men who had gone out on the mission with him were wounded or lost. Two were picked up and put in the narrow space with him; one was driving. The rest had been left behind. There was blood on his left arm, on his clothes, maybe even on his face. It had been a messy job. He'd had to use several grenades, so there was dirt everywhere, too. Still, he was successful, so he was passively anticipating getting back to base._

_ Suddenly, a deafening noise struck his ears and he braced himself as the vehicle rolled. The other men rolled with it and he dodged to avoid them. When the movement had ceased, he held very still, listening. Faintly, then growing louder, he could hear the unmistakable sound of boots marching closer. He picked up a pistol from the wall, which was now the floor, at his feet and waited as patiently as he had been when they were driving._

_ There were voices outside. The language was familiar, but not one he understood. Someone pulled the door to the vehicle open, and he held very still. There were four figures standing in the light outside. All were armed to the teeth and dressed in body armor. They aimed their weapons, searching. It was dark enough that they hadn't seen him yet. He moved fluidly and got off three shots before they could react. All were down. He pulled a grenade, his last one, from of his belt and tossed it out the door, covering his face with his metal arm as it went off._

_ He walked out of the vehicle, stepping carefully over what remained of the men who had been at the door. A cursory glance informed him that they had hit a landmine. It was surprising that the enemy had arrived at the distressed vehicle so quickly. He looked around, but saw no one else. They had been driving down a lonely path in the woods; the target had been remote. He stood near the vehicle, prepared to take cover. There wasn't a sound. He started walking._

* * *

_ He was back at base. The little man he knew, who gave him missions, was talking to another man. The second man was in his mid-thirties, five foot ten, two hundred pounds. He had sandy hair and was wearing a suit. People did not usually wear suits here. They seemed to be arguing. The man he knew was very adamant about something. He couldn't hear, wasn't listening to, what it was that caused the contention. But the body language was clearly that of distress and he was beginning to wonder if he would be given a quick and easy mission right here._

_ They walked over to him, the new man leading the way. "He's magnificent," he said sincerely when they stopped in front of him. "A bit dirty, but," he smiled, shrugging._

_ "He can be unpredictable. He needs to be conditioned further," the man in the lab coat insisted stubbornly. He coughed, hacking, then frowned at the other man._

_ "He will be," the man waved away the concerns. He turned back to the soldier. "Mission report," he commanded._

_ He glanced at the other man briefly, who continued to frown but gave him no direction. "The camp was infiltrated and destroyed. Four survived initially but were eliminated a few miles away."_

_ "And your team?"_

_ He frowned slightly. "Three survived the initial attack, but were killed by a landmine on the way back to base."_

_ "How did you get back?"_

_ "On foot."_

_ The man in the suit turned to look at the other man, an arrogant smile on his face. "I think we will be just fine without you, Doctor. You've done excellent work."_

_ The familiar man looked pleased. "Thank you, sir. I know he will serve HYDRA well."_

_ "Yes, he will be an excellent asset. How did you choose him?"_

_ The doctor (?) looked uncomfortable. The soldier watched the exchange with little interest until that question. He didn't move, not wanting to attract attention. The little man cleared his throat. "He had powerful friends. We hoped to target them on an emotional level by using him," he said at last._

_ "Hoped?" the man in the suit prompted, raising an eyebrow._

_ "The threat was… neutralized before we finished the training."_

_ "I see." He turned back to the soldier. "Let me talk to him. Alone," he added, looking at the doctor intently._

_ "But, sir, I don't think that would be a good idea until you've been briefed more fully," the little man protested, coughing, upset._

_ "Doctor. It wasn't a request," the man said flatly._

_ "Sir, I –"_

_ "Zola. I'm not going to ask again." _

_ The little man looked afraid. The soldier frowned. This experience was making him uneasy. He looked at each man carefully, uncertainly. The familiar man looked at him, looked him in the eye, then turned and walked away. His gate was shuffling, sickly._

_ "Let's have a seat, shall we?" the new man asked, pulling over two stools and sat on one. He obediently lowered himself onto the other. "Do you know what kind of work you do here?"_

_ "Elimination of threats," he said quietly._

_ "Yes, exactly," the man replied, looking pleased. "Who tells you who is a threat?"_

_ He shifted his weight slightly. "The man who just left."_

_ "Doctor Zola, yes. Is there anyone else here you know?"_

_ "There is a man with red hair," he said slowly._

_ The other man's face darkened almost imperceptibly. "You don't need to worry about him anymore. Doctor Zola may not be with us much longer, so I am going to take his place. I will identify the threats and you can help me by eliminating them. We will make the world a better place for all mankind," he said, smiling. "Do you want to help me change the world?"_

_ It was a strange question. He did not usually get asked things like this. He frowned, considering. "Yes," he said at length._

_ "Wonderful. We will let you sleep now, but I look forward to working with you when you wake up," the man said, standing. He motioned, and the little man, Zola, reappeared moments later._

_ "Yes?" the latter man asked irritably._

_ "Put him in stasis. Don't wipe him. I want him to remember me," the man in the suit ordered._

_ "But, sir, we always wipe him after a mission." He glanced at the soldier, who watched them silently. "Things start to come back if we wait too long."_

_ The man in the suit clapped a hand on the other's shoulder, making him cough. "I don't think you're going to have to worry about that, Doctor." He turned to some other men who were just entering the room. "Get him cleaned up and in stasis." He turned back to the soldier and smiled. "Enjoy your rest. You're going to need it." The soldier stood and followed the men, glancing back at the man in the suit just once, brow furrowed._


	6. Forgetting names and faces

**A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews (especially from the guest reviewer, since I can't thank you personally! The man in the suit in the last chapter was Alexander Pierce, in case anyone was confused :) Let me know how I'm doing!**

**6\. Forgetting names and faces**

_He lay on his belly, legs stretched out behind him. His arms were propped up and he was looking through the scope of a sniper rifle. He was in an empty office building, waiting silently before a large window. He'd arrived during the night and set up under the cover of darkness. The sun was high in the sky now, warming the barrel of his weapon. The rest of the weapon, and himself, was too far back to be affected. He would have to consider the temperature change before he shot._

_ The target was in another office building, directly across from him. Or would be, he had been assured by the man in the suit. He'd been awakened somewhere different this time. The little man who was usually there when he awoke had not been. Just the man in the suit was there. He remembered him a little, too. A new team had taken him to this place, though it was rarely the same group from mission to mission. Of course, not many of them usually survived the missions._

_ They had driven away, to wait for him to complete the mission. He knew the extraction point he was to go to after the target was eliminated. He knew, in great detail, who his target was. Often he was given a picture and a location and little else. But the new man had told him much more about him, and why he needed to be removed from power. The soldier hadn't really listened, hadn't really understood what he meant. He would do as ordered. It didn't matter who the target was._

_ Finally, the target appeared. He had guards around him. The soldier waited patiently. One of them had the foresight to close the shades. He stared intently, muscles taut. After a few careful calculations, he squeezed the trigger. The target was down. So was the guard who had been standing in front of him. The soldier calmly sat back on his heels and packed up his rifle and tripod. The process took under a minute, and he was on his way out the building._

_ Ambulances and police cars were screaming up to the curb. People ran around shouting. He stood just inside the doors, watching. A gurney was wheeled out of the building. The sheet covered the person's head. But he could tell by the build that it was not the target; it was the guard. He waited. Another gurney appeared, loaded into the other ambulance. A sheet covered the person as well. He could see blood dripping, staining the sheet, leaving a tiny trail on the concrete. The police were talking to the other guards. Some were motioning in his direction. Time to go._

_ He strode down the street. The building that had contained the target was several blocks away. No one had noticed him slip into the crowd of concerned onlookers. He was not dressed in his customary mission gear. He was dressed to blend. Most of his missions previously had not taken place in populated areas, and the man had assured him that battle gear would not be necessary for this. He had been right thus far._

_ As he walked, it occurred to him that he had passed the extraction point. He considered turning around, but couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to keep going. The area around him was becoming almost familiar. He ignored the conflicting orders in his head and continued down the street._

* * *

_The door came down with a crash. Five men, dressed in battle gear, rushed inside, training their weapons on him. He was sitting on a couch, calmly, as though he had been waiting for this. "We found him. Tell Pierce," one of the men said in Russian, into a radio._

* * *

_ He was back at base. The one he remembered well, not the new one. He was seated in a metal chair, restraints holding his arms down. There were ten men standing around him, waiting uncomfortably for something. He considered them carefully. Something had changed._

_ "Mission report," the man in the suit said as he walked into the room. He was clearly what the others had been waiting for._

_ "Target was eliminated. Shot was fired from the designated building, killing a guard and the target," he said automatically._

_ The man came and stood over him, looking down. "Then what happened?"_

_ The soldier blinked at him. "The authorities came and evasive maneuvers were necessary," he stated after a pause._

_ "You didn't go to the extraction point."_

_ "No," he agreed._

_ "Why not?" The man's voice was low, ominous._

_ The soldier frowned thoughtfully. "I don't know," he admitted._

_ The man stood back, his intense look gone. "Do you know where you went?" he asked, his voice benevolent._

_ "No." He paused. "An apartment," he suggested, tentatively._

_ "Had you been there ever before?"_

_ "I don't know."_

_ The man nodded, seeming satisfied. "Well, it's a good thing we found you." He patted the soldier on the shoulder. "Next time, go to the extraction point. We would hate to lose someone of your talents." He turned away, facing the men. "Wipe him. Then get him cleaned up and in stasis," he ordered._

_ Most of the men filed out of the room. Two more entered in their shirtsleeves. They fiddled with the controls on the panels near the chair on which he sat. One came forward and offered him a mouth guard. He obligingly opened his mouth and accepted it. It was a little more difficult than usual because of his beard growth. His body reacted to what his mind barely recalled, and he began to breathe hard and press against the restraints. Something cold was lowered over his head and there was pain everywhere._

* * *

He has completed his mission. The man, Steve, has confirmed it. The new man is more familiar, but in an old way, than the other men who had given him orders. He knows him. Strange images of him much smaller than he currently is strike him frequently. He doesn't understand. He has never been asked to understand before, and the desire to do so now is unique.

His new mission is vague. Remember who you are. How can he do that? It is not like his other missions. There is no clear directive, no definitive end point. How will he accomplish this? He frowns, looks at the other man in distress. Why would he give him a task he cannot complete? Does he not know what kind of work he is supposed to do?

"I'll help you," Steve tells him, looking reassuring.

"I don't know what to do," he admits.

"I don't, either. We'll have to figure this out together, my friend."

"What if we can't?"

A pained look crosses Steve's face. "We have to try."

He nods slowly. "I've never failed a mission, I don't think. Except one," he adds, cocking his head as he regards the other man.

Steve smiles slowly. "I've never backed down from a fight, except one. So I think we'll make a good team."

A knock at the door disrupts the atmosphere in the room. He backs up against the wall again, eyes narrowed. Steve turns in his chair to face the interruption, gaze flickering between him and the door. "Rogers?" a female voice asks. "Were you speaking Russian just now?"


	7. Passersby were looking at me

**A/N: We're halfway through :) Thanks for all the support! Let me know how it's going.**

**7\. Passersby were looking at me as if they could erase it**

Natasha's voice. She heard Bucky, James, when he woke up. His friend had that hunted look on his face again, which had faded. He had almost looked like he would smile before Natasha had interrupted them. In his long vigil, he had not really considered how he would explain his friend's presence to the others. How would Bucky react to everyone? Would it be best to keep him isolated for now? Or might it be good for him to have some human contact?

"Steve?" she pressed, sounding concerned.

He motioned for Bucky to stay where he was and got to his feet. He opened the door slightly and looked out. "You know I don't speak Russian, Nat. Maybe you're hearing things."

She smirked. "You're a terrible liar." She glanced passed him into the room, a knowing look on her face. "He's here, isn't he? You found him."

Steve cleared his throat, listening to see if Bucky would react. "He found me," he admitted, lowering his voice.

She raised an eyebrow. "He got in here?" He nodded, and she shook her head wordlessly. "He's good."

"Yeah," Steve replied, smiling slightly.

Natasha seemed to be waiting for something. "Well. I guess I'll see you guys later," she said slowly.

"I think that would be best," Steve replied, feeling relieved.

"Tell him I said hi," she called as she walked away.

Steve shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Bucky. He was still standing in the corner, but seemed more or less relaxed. His arms were folded over his chest and Steve wondered, vaguely, if his metal arm made that uncomfortable. "I've seen her before," Bucky said slowly.

"Yes, when you met me on the bridge."

"Attacked you," Bucky corrected emotionlessly. "She was the other target."

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "Did you want to talk to her?"

Bucky's eyes focused on him suddenly, the intensity jarring. "Do you trust me to talk to her?"

"You haven't attacked me since you got here. So it seems like you've let that mission go," he said carefully.

"I don't know."

"Well." Steve paused, unsure how to broach the next subject. "Do you need some more sleep?"

Bucky shook his head almost before he had finished the question. "Too much sleep," he grumbled.

"Alright. Do you want to get cleaned up while I get us some breakfast?" Steve suggested.

Bucky looked down at himself, a perplexed look on his face. "I used to get cleaned up before going to sleep," he said quietly.

Steve bit his lip to keep from saying what he wanted to say about the people who had done that. "You won't have to sleep after," he promised.

"Okay." He looked uncomfortable, but not in the distant way he had earlier. It was a more present feeling.

Steve showed him the bathroom and got him some clothes. "You can use my razor if you want to shave. We can get you a haircut later, too. Have you been wearing those clothes ever since … the river?"

Bucky had been nodding, but now shook his head. "My mission gear? No. I needed to blend in until this part of the mission."

Steve resisted smiling at his tone, which was so much like he remembered from when they had gone on missions with the Howling Commandos. He wondered if he had wanted to make sure he was recognized when he came to see Steve. Just like he had worn his old uniform for the last fight, on the helicarrier. "Okay. Well, do you know how all this stuff works?" he asked, motioning to the room at large.

"I'm sure I can figure it out."

"Okay. I'll be back soon," Steve said, feeling hesitant to leave. Bucky was finally here, and acting much more like Bucky than he had really expected. It was wonderful. But he knew that he should give his friend space. They had stripped away his humanity, tried to make him into a machine. It was important to make him feel like a man again, and part of that was being trusted to be alone. Had he been actually alone and unmonitored at any point in the last seventy years?

* * *

Steve left his room, shutting the door quietly behind him. He didn't want to be noticed. He walked down the hall to the kitchen. The floor was just his, but sometimes the others came to visit. Natasha and Clint didn't have their own floors, so were more frequent guests. He made bacon and eggs. He could remember making it with Bucky before, after his mom died, and he hoped it might jog his friend's memories.

As he was putting the food on plates, he felt eyes on him. He looked up and was somewhat relieved to see Bucky standing there. His long hair was wet and combed back, away from his face, which was clean shaven. His face was sallow and gaunt without the beard and Steve wondered if he had been eating or getting any sleep while on his own. He was wearing Steve's clothes, which were too big, and did nothing to decrease the fact that he looked sickly. Like a ghost, he thought bitterly.

"Hey, good timing," he said, forcing his voice to be cheerful despite the despair he felt at seeing his friend look this way. "Do you want some milk or –" he began.

"Yes," Bucky said quickly, adamantly.

"Okay," Steve said slowly, pouring him some. "I don't remember you being that fond of milk," he said as he watched Bucky down the whole glass.

A smile crossed Bucky's face, but it was cold and angry. Not like Bucky. "The man… Pierce? Baited me with it." Steve stared at him, confused. "To show me my place," he said softly, eyes narrowed, not meeting Steve's eye.

"Oh. I'm sorry," he replied awkwardly.

His gaze was intense when it lifted to Steve's face. "Is he still alive?"

"No."

"Pity."

Steve frowned, surprised by the malevolence on Bucky's face. On the Winter Soldier's face, he supposed. He forced himself to remember that they were the same person now. As much as the soldier was allowed to be a person, of course. He'd have to get used to this new side of his old friend.

"Well, let's eat. Do you want to eat in here or in my room?"

Bucky's brow furrowed briefly. He looked lost, like he had when he'd woken from the nightmare. Steve considered, painfully, that Bucky had probably not been asked his opinion on anything in a long time. He hesitated, wondering if he should not give Bucky opportunities like this, or if he should give him more. Too bad Sam wasn't here. He would have been able to provide some insight into what Bucky was going through.

"Here?" he said tentatively.

"Sounds good," Steve said and sat down on one of the bar stools. He pulled their plates across the counter in front of them. It occurred to him after a beat, during which Bucky didn't move, that his friend might not be comfortable sitting next to him. He waited to see what he would do. Slowly, Bucky lowered himself onto the stool. Steve was forcibly reminded of a nervous cat. He took care not to make any sudden movements, and began to eat.

They ate in silence. Steve tried not to pay too much attention to his friend eating. He wondered if this was how Bucky had felt when he was small and weak, and Bucky was making sure he had enough to eat. Their reversal in roles made his heart ache. Bucky had always been strong and confident, and taken care of him. He was happy to be able to repay the favor, but it hurt to consider why it was necessary.


	8. I was alone, staring over the ledge

**8\. I was alone, staring over the ledge**

He eats. He is sitting next to Steve. That feels right, somehow. It strikes him that he has not considered how things have felt in a long time, if ever. The food is good. It is somehow familiar, but no memories are triggered. He wonders if he can remember things that have already been shaken loose, so to speak, whenever he wants to. He glances at Steve, who is eating and being too careful about not watching him. He wants to remember something with Steve, not one of his missions or his training. His eyes narrow as he concentrates.

* * *

_"There's got to be a rope or something!" he shouted._

_"Just go! Get out of here!" Steve responded, resolute._

_"No! Not without you!" he cried, leaning forward, aching to return to the other side, to join his friend. Things were confusing and he wasn't sure where he was, but Steve was back. Steve was a giant, but he was back. And he couldn't bear to be separated again._

_He watched, anxious, as Steve cast around for some idea of how to cross. The super soldier, as he now was, apparently, bent the metal rod of the railing out of the way and walked back to the wall. He was transfixed as his friend ran and vaulted over the chasm, actually reaching the other side. He didn't make it over the railing, but managed to catch hold of it. He quickly reached down to help his friend climb over. _

_"Wow," he breathed, admiringly._

_"I wasn't sure that would work," Steve replied, self-effacing._

_"Well, it did," he said, smiling like a fool. It was an amazing feat and he wondered if he was still dreaming. But, no, this was a pleasant dream. The others hadn't been._

_"Good," Steve said, sharing his smile. "Let's go."_

_They turned away from the factory floor and looked around. Bucky fell into step beside Steve as he led the way toward a door some thirty feet south. Steve offered his shoulder for support, and Bucky accepted it. It was strange for Steve to be taller than him, to be leaning on him instead of being leaned on. His legs ached and he was disoriented still, so he was grateful for the help._

_The door led to a set of winding stairs. Steve let him climb down these without help, which he found he was able to do. He held onto the railing tightly, though. Despite the explosions behind them as the machinery of the factory caught fire, Steve did not hurry him. Steve was leading, looking ahead for any threats, but paused frequently for Bucky to catch up to him._

_Finally, they reached the ground outside. In the courtyard, there was chaos. Bucky stopped to stare, taking in the battle. The prisoners were clearly winning, and many had taken control of the strange weapons being made there. He couldn't see many of the guards in their black coats, at least not many who were still on their feet. There were plenty lying on the ground. He didn't really want to see them._

_He looked at Steve, who was surveying the mess with a resolute look on his face. It was the same expression he wore when planning things at home. Bucky could practically see the wheels in his head turning as he formulated some strategy. For the first time since he had gone to war, he felt safe. It was a strange place to feel that way, with men still fighting and dying around him._

* * *

"Buck – James? You okay?"

Steve is speaking. He shakes his head slowly, to clear it of the visions and thoughts he has been absorbed in. He blinks a few times, and looks up to see Steve staring at him, concern written plainly on his face. "Yeah," he says quietly

Steve looks only slightly relieved. "Where were you? You haven't moved in a few minutes."

"Italy."

"Oh." Steve considers. "When?"

"During the war." He pauses. "You were there," he says, hesitantly.

Steve smiles. "Yeah?"

He nods; doesn't answer. He looks down at his plate. It is not quite empty. His hunger is sated, but he eats the rest anyway. It would be rude not to, he thinks, then wonders where that notion came from. The source niggles at the back of his mind, but it hasn't shaken loose yet. He sighs.

Steve is still looking at him. He seems to realize this as he looks up, and quickly busies himself cleaning up after breakfast. "Did you get enough to eat?" Steve asks, his back to him.

"Yes." He is thinking. In his memory, he had felt safe with Steve despite being in a combat situation. Does he feel safe now? Is that what brought him here? He supposes it must be. He cocks his head, watching the other man. No one else in his memories made any effort to make him comfortable. He isn't sure how to react. The uncertainty bothers him.

He forces his thoughts somewhere less perplexing. "Who killed the man – Pierce?" he asks. He wants details. He doesn't know if Steve will give them to him, not the kind he wants.

"Nick Fury. Former Director of SHIELD," Steve replies, giving him a strange look. He doesn't continue and seems to be waiting for something.

He considers the name and title, and a face appears. "He was a target?" he guesses.

"Yes."

He regards Steve, thinking. "Another mission I failed," he says at last, wistfully.

Steve smiles slightly. "Don't feel bad. It was a near thing, but Nick's always got a lot of tricks up his sleeve."

He shrugs. It doesn't matter anymore. He has a new mission. "And how did he survive to go on and kill Pierce?"

"I'm not clear on the details," Steve admits. "He used some drug to fake his death, and went to the Triskelion when we were… on the helicarrier. He shot Pierce there." There is silence while he digests this information. "Had you known him a long time?" Steve asks, diverting his train of thought.

"The man in the suit," he says quietly. "I knew him when he was young." He pauses. "Not as young as us, though. Mid-thirties, I think."

Steve smiles at the reference to their ages, then whistles. "Wow, I can't believe it went back that far. That he was so influential in HYDRA that long ago."

He thinks of the man as he has most recently seen him, probably in his sixties. It was a long time ago that they met, then. "The doctor… Zola. He didn't like Pierce," he says suddenly.

"No? I didn't know they knew each other," Steve says, looking thoughtful.

"They gave me orders."

Steve looks at him sharply. "Zola is dead, too," he says, almost reassuringly.

"I know. He wouldn't have let me be in someone else's control while he was alive," he says indifferently.

The look on Steve's face is surprised and upset. He hides it quickly, but not fast enough to avoid notice. He looks around the room, avoiding Steve's gaze, and carefully notes his surroundings. It is more habit than something he expects to be necessary. His ears prick toward an approaching sound, and he silently slides off of the stool and turns to face the noise, crouching. When a figure appeared, he charges, wrapping his metal fingers around the intruder's throat and shoving her against the wall.


	9. Trying my best

**A/N: Sorry for the late update today. Thanks for all the feedback :)**

**9\. Trying my best not to forget**

Strong arms grab him around the waist and throw him backwards. He releases his grip to catch himself with his metal hand as he hits the floor, landing in a crouch on his feet. Steve stands between him and the woman, whose terrified look is fading. Steve is frowning at him, and he is immediately remorseful for disappointing him. He pushes the feeling away. It was a programmed response and he doesn't know if it is real. He glares at them, crouched and waiting.

"We aren't going to hurt you," Steve tells him, a pained look on his face.

"As if we could," the woman grumbled, rubbing her neck.

He stands up slowly, relaxing his arms at his sides. He looks from Steve to the woman questioningly. Natasha Romanov, he remembers. She was his target. He heard her earlier, outside of Steve's room.

"Are we okay?" Steve asks slowly, staring at him intently.

"Yeah," he replies quietly.

Steve moves away from the woman – Natasha – and continues to watch him warily. "I just want to help you."

He nods and looks away.

"Rogers is a good guy, huh? Makes you want to clean up your act, just being nearby," Natasha says. It takes a moment for him to realize she's speaking in Russian. He turns his attention to her, aware that Steve is alternating his gaze between them.

"Something like that," he says noncommittally, also in Russian.

"There are some things he isn't going to understand. He always does what's right, not what he's told. But I know what it's like, to do what you have to. So, when you're ready, I'll be around," she says sincerely.

His brow furrows, but he nods. He doesn't understand, and the look on her face makes him uncomfortable. He's seen the look on Steve's face, too, but he knows Steve.

"Well," Steve says slowly, looking for some explanation. "I guess I should learn Russian."

Natasha smiles. "Don't worry about it, Rogers. Just catching up. Hill sent me. She needs you to come in," she adds, smile vanishing.

Steve settles his gaze on him, conflicted. "How long will it take?" he asks Natasha, without looking away from him.

"She didn't give me a schedule. But they need you, Cap."

Steve sighs. "Will you be okay here by yourself?" he asks.

He shrugs. "Probably."

"Not if he's going to attack anyone who walks down the hallway," Natasha mutters.

Steve looks at her, frowning. "Does Maria need you for something?"

"I don't think so."

"Could you stay and keep Buck – James – company?" Steve asks quietly. She hesitates, glancing at him. "If that's okay with you, James," he adds.

He looked at her appraisingly. The man – Pierce – had uncharacteristically not given him much information on either target for his last mission. He knew very little about her, besides her being Russian and apparently being some kind of threat to HYDRA. She was able to hold her own for quite some time against him, which is rare. Her earlier comment hints at something more, but he cannot guess what that means. She is afraid of him. She tries to hide it, but he can tell. It is not something with which he is unfamiliar. If he chooses to leave, she will not be able to stop him. And he doesn't really want to meet any of the other residents.

"Sure," he says finally.

Steve looks at Natasha and she nods. "Well… Don't do anything stupid until I get back," he says.

Natasha smiles, amused, and he frowns, concentrating. Then everything fades away.

* * *

_"Let's hear it for Captain America!" Bucky called, and everyone cheered. Steve looked at him and he smiled ruefully at his friend. When he looked away, his smile fell as he considered this new turn of events. He'd always seen the hero in Steve. It was great that these men did, too, but it meant that things would be different. He wasn't Steve's protector anymore. The man probably didn't need one, first of all, and there were plenty of other men who would follow Captain America. He frowned, forcing away his distress._

_ The crowd eventually dispersed as the former prisoners went to get medical attention or just to sleep. He didn't leave Steve's side. The lady, Peggy, eventually went to make sure the men were taken care of properly. "Well," he said when there were few people within earshot, "looks like I didn't take all the stupid with me after all."_

_ "What do you mean?" Steve asked, clearly surprised, but smiling at the reference to their much earlier conversation._

_ He gestured eloquently to new Steve, then toward Peggy's retreating back. "Why are you standing around here for?"_

_ "Oh," Steve said slowly. "I don't think… It's not like that."_

_ "Yeah? And why isn't it like that?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow._

_ Steve looked uncomfortable. "I think there's another guy," he admitted._

_ Bucky laughed, though it became a cough and he had to stop. "Steve, have you seen yourself lately? I don't think you're going to have a whole lot of competition ever again. In anything, really," he added thoughtfully._

_ "Oh, Buck, come on. Let's get you some food," Steve replied, shaking his head._

_ "If you don't go after her, I will," Bucky warned. Steve just laughed._

* * *

_ He sat at the bar, drinking whiskey. He stared intently at his drink, swilling it around in the glass. Steve was sitting with Dugan and the rest. He'd recommended them to Steve, for his team. He waited, knowing what Steve would ask when he finished with them. He would have to cheer up and focus on what was ahead. But he felt strange. He didn't know what they had done to him in that factory. It might be permanent. It might have unpleasant side effects, like that man they had seen with the red skull. Steve didn't seem to have any negative experiences with the procedure, but it was unlikely that the circumstances were the same. He had no idea what to expect. It was possible that he wouldn't notice anything else. It was also possible that something horrible might be coming._

_ "See, I told you. They were all idiots," he said, forcing a teasing tone into his voice as his friend walked into the bar._

_ "How about you? Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?" Steve asked, sitting down next to him._

_ "Hell no." Steve's face fell. "That little guy from Brooklyn, who was too dumb to run away from a fight. I'm following him," he said, smiling wistfully. Steve smiled back, gratefully. He took a drink and Steve turned his attention to his own being brought. "But you're keeping the outfit, right?" he asked._

_"You know what?" Steve replied after a pause. "It's kinda growing on me," he finished, glancing at the poster of himself on the wall. The sounds of the men enjoying themselves in the next room suddenly decreased. They both turned to look. It was Peggy, looking amazing in a red dress. They got to their feet politely to face her._

_ "Captain."_

_ "Agent Carter."_

_ Bucky looked her up and down. "Ma'am," he said, smiling._

_ "Howard has some equipment for you to try. Tomorrow morning," she said._

_ "Sounds good," Steve said, clearly not really hearing her. He studied her intently when she looked toward the other part of the bar. Bucky watched Steve, then looked down thoughtfully before turning to follow Peggy's gaze._

_ "I see your top squad is preparing for duty," she said drily._

_ "You don't like a little music?" Bucky asked, smiling, when Steve said nothing, just stared at her._

_ "I do, actually," she replied, still looking at Steve. "In fact, when this is all over, I may even go dancing."_

_ "Well, what are we waiting for?" he pressed, waiting for Steve to speak up. He wasn't sure his friend even noticed his presence._

_ "The right partner," she said, the look passing between her and Steve indicating that this referenced some previous conversation. Steve continued to be unresponsive. "Oh-eight-hundred, Captain," she said, and left._

_ "Yes, ma'am, I'll be there," Steve said, finally becoming aware of the room._

_ Bucky watched her go. "I'm invisible," he said, surprised. "I'm turning into you. It's like a horrible dream."_

_ "Don't take it so hard. Maybe she's got a friend," Steve teased._


	10. All manner of joy, all manner of glee

**A/N: As always, thank you for all the followers and reviewers! I hope you enjoy this Steve chapter.  
**

**10\. All manner of joy, all manner of glee, and our one heroic pledge**

Steve did not want to leave Bucky, not now. It was still a shock to see him again. It was unpleasant to be reminded what had happened to his friend, to see his metal arm and the blank look in his eyes. But he was terrified that he might not be there when he got back. That he might hurt himself or others while he wasn't there. He reminded himself that at least some of the Avengers were in the building, and they could certainly defend themselves and anyone else from the broken soldier.

He drove to the new, secret, headquarters of SHIELD, and thought about Dr. Erskine. He was a kind man, and his advice had meant a great deal. He had reminded Steve that who he already was mattered, and he was just being given the tools to achieve more. How different it was for Bucky, who had been removed from himself to be a better tool. Dr. Zola was not gentle or kind, and apparently jealous of his control over Bucky.

He'd already been made into a super soldier when Bucky was captured. Was it just dumb luck, or fate, that his best friend had been captured by men who hated him? Had they chosen Bucky to hurt Steve? Was all of this really his fault? He had defeated, though not thwarted, a HYDRA agent as soon as the procedure was completed. He was in the papers. When he had rescued Bucky and met the Red Skull, he'd said he enjoyed his films. They had known him. Could they have known that Bucky was his friend? That turning him against Steve would be very effective? Or was that just a happy accident for HYDRA?

* * *

"They look like they've been through hell," he said, hating himself for being here, no different from a chorus girl.

"These men more than most. Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano. Two hundred men went up against him and less than fifty returned. Your audience contained what was left of the 107th," Peggy told him. "The rest were killed or captured."

He looked up at her sharply. "The 107th?" he demanded.

She frowned. "What?" she asked, puzzled

He jumped to his feet and ran toward the command tent, Peggy following quickly despite the rain. "Colonel Phillips," he said as he went inside.

"Well, if it isn't the Star-Spangled man with a plan. What is your plan today?" he asked mockingly.

"I need the casualty list from Azzano," he said, trying to keep the anxiety from his voice.

"You don't get to give me orders, son," the Colonel replied, unmoved.

"I just need one name. Sgt. James Barnes from the 107th," he pressed.

"You and I are gonna have a conversation later that you won't enjoy," he said to Peggy.

"Please tell me if he's alive, sir," Steve interrupted. "B-A-R-"

"I can spell," Phillips replied sharply. He paused, looking down. "I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count," he continued, standing, carrying a stack of papers over to a desk. "But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry," he finished, turning back, seeming almost sympathetic.

Steve looked down, digesting this. He was here because of Bucky, because they'd decided to go together. It had taken him a long time, but he was so close. He had thought that they might meet, over here, when he had flown over so recently. But not like this. He couldn't be dead. Not yet, not now. "What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?" he suggested.

"Yeah, it's called 'winning the war,'" Phillips replied, hands on his hips, annoyed.

Steve looked at him, surprised. "But if you know where they are, why don't you just -"

"They're thirty miles behind the lines, through some of the most heavily fortified territory in Europe. We'd lose more men than we'd save. But I don't expect you to understand that because you're a chorus girl," he finished coldly.

"I think I understand just fine," Steve replied, matching the Colonel's tone.

"Well, then understand it somewhere else. If I read the posters correctly, you've got someplace to be in thirty minutes," Phillips said, walking away.

"Yes, sir, I do," Steve said and walked out of the tent.

Back in the tent that had been given over as a dressing room, he quickly gathered some gear to wear. Peggy had followed him again. "What do you plan to do, walk to Austria?" she demanded.

"If that's what it takes."

"You heard the Colonel. Your friend is most likely dead," she told him.

"You don't know that," he replied resolutely.

"Even so, he's devising a strategy. If he detects -" she began.

"By the time he's done that, it could be too late," he interrupted harshly.

"Steve!" she said, following him as he picked up his shield and walked out of the tent.

"You told me you thought I was meant for more than this. Did you mean that?" he asked, looking at her intently as he loaded his gear into a jeep.

She stared at him for a moment. "Every word," she said, her voice sincere.

"Then you've got to let me go," he told her, turning away to get into the jeep.

"I can do more than that," she promised, standing by his door, her hand on the windshield.

* * *

She had taken him to Howard Stark, to a plane. He had been surprised that the man was willing to fly him closer. Peggy briefed him on the way. He tried to focus on what she said, not on the feeling that the world might be about to fall away under his feet. If Bucky was truly gone… He would not think about it. He would go and save whoever he could. Then maybe he could be more than a chorus girl. Maybe he could really serve his country, and honor Bucky's memory, if it came to that.

Howard invited Peggy to fondue. When he asked her about it, she grimaced. Well, as much as a proper British woman would grimace. She hadn't answered him, just continued to give him information about what he was about to do. When they were spotted and the enemy began firing upon him, he jumped from the plane. The walk to the factory was not very long; Stark had gotten him surprisingly close, all things considered. He climbed into a personnel carrier and was quickly able to knock out all of the enemies inside. He was surprised, and pleased; it was starting to look like he might be successful.

When he was inside the factory, he moved silently through the huge pieces of machinery on the factory floor. They were making strange weapons here, ones unlike any he had seen. He picked up part of one that was unassembled. Someone might find it useful to look at it. He kept searching. The cells holding the prisoners were not particularly hard to find. He freed them quickly, but Bucky wasn't among them. When he asked, one man suggested an isolation ward in the factory, but warned him that no one had ever come back. He gave the men orders on how to escape and went to look for himself.

It was helpful when there were enemies in his path as he searched for the isolation ward. They distracted him from where his thoughts kept returning. This was the last place Bucky could be. If he wasn't here… He focused on the fight, on the mission. He'd freed a large number of prisoners. That was good. Even if Bucky was already gone, it would honor his memory to have done this for him.

As he walked down a dark hallway, a small man appeared before him, carrying a briefcase with a lot of papers haphazardly shoved inside. When the man saw him, he turned and ran. Steve followed him, but paused at the door the man had just exited. He thought he heard something. He entered the room warily, arms spread, knees bent, ready to react to any attacker.

"Sergeant. Three two five five seven - ," a voice was mumbling.

He ran forward, spotting a man strapped to a gurney. It was him. He felt relief wash over him, quickly followed by distress when he saw that his friend wasn't present. "Bucky," he said insistently. There was no response. "Oh my God," he said, looking down at the apparatus holding Bucky to the gurney. He ripped it off.

Bucky turned his head, looking confused. "Is it-" he started to ask, vaguely.

"It's me. It's Steve," he told him, not sure how much he was understanding.

"Steve?" Bucky said, smiling in surprise.

He pulled his friend to his feet and looked him up and down. "I thought you were dead," he said, quietly.

* * *

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he thought about what they must have done to him there, in that lab. It was like a horrible dream, the way they'd turned Bucky into him. Or tried. His jaw clenched as he thought about how they had left that factory, when his friend had yelled that he wouldn't leave without him. And he hadn't. Bucky had never left him behind, not even when he couldn't remember who he was. He wished to God that he could say the same.


	11. And the consequences

**11\. How it mattered to us, how it mattered to me, and the consequences**

He awakens. He is in a bed, the same one as before. The room is dark again. Steve's room. The shades are drawn. He does not wake up violently, possibly for the first time, which is a nice change. He becomes aware of a figure sitting in the chair at the desk. It is not Steve. It is much slighter than Steve. He sits up abruptly, glaring into the dim light to try to assess the threat level.

"Oh, good, you're up," a female voice breaks the silence. It is Natasha, he remembers.

He thinks back. Last he remembered was being in the kitchen. He doesn't recall coming here. Steve said something that triggered a memory flash. And then he was in the war. Waking up here is jarring. His metal arm startles him. He doesn't like that the woman is there to see his distress. He clears his throat, sits up, and tries to focus.

"What time is it?" he asks, not really caring, but unsure what else to say.

"After noon. About two, I think. You were out for a long time," she tells him, leaning back, crossing her arms over her chest, putting her feet up on the edge of the bed. "What were you dreaming about?"

"The war." He pauses, considering what he wants to tell her, looking at her feet, intruding into his space. "When Steve rescued … the company."

He can feel her gaze on him. His jaw clenches. "Rogers doesn't talk about the war much," she says casually. She pauses. "What happened?"

He runs his fingers through his hair. He is unable to think of a reason not to tell her. It is, after all, ancient history. And not reporting a mission goes against his training. "My company came under attack. The enemy had new weapons. The men were decimated. Most of them were killed or captured. They were taken to a factory. Some of them were put to work. Some of them… had other uses for the enemy," he says softly. "Steve came out of nowhere and rescued them. Us. Me." He took a deep breath. "It was his first military engagement after the procedure. After he became Captain America," he explained, with little emotion in his voice.

She is quiet, listening intently. "How did he rescue you?"

"In a lab. They did experiments," he cuts himself off abruptly. He does not want to follow that train of thought. "He came and found us, freed us, took us back to camp. He was a lot bigger than I'd remembered," he adds thoughtfully, uncharacteristically saying the first thing that came to mind.

She laughs. He looks at her, startled at the sound. "Sorry," she says, and he can see the amusement reach her eyes. "I'd heard he used to be a little guy, but I didn't really think about what it would be like to know him before and after."

He doesn't answer. He isn't sure if he is expected to. His initial reaction to seeing Steve was one of relief. Then he had grown more distressed as they met another man who had undergone the same procedure, with horrifying results. He had been first worried for Steve, who had not seemed concerned. Then he had begun to wonder what they had done to him in that lab. And what effects it would have. He looks down at himself, thinking. It clearly had changed him. He was able to survive a terrible fall because of what they had done. He'd lost an arm, sure, but that was little compared to what should have happened. Then they'd turned him into the soldier. Why him? He remembered being chosen. Other men he hadn't known had also been selected. Something unpleasant had happened to them. He didn't want to think about it.

"Where's Steve?" he asks, to bring himself back to the present. He had not anticipated his returning memories being so disabling.

He can see her purse her lips in the dim light. "He was called in. By SHIELD. You don't remember?"

He shrugs. "It's hard to tell," he mutters, more to himself than to her.

"Well. Are you hungry? Need some more sleep? Or anything else?" she asks, her voice business-like and formal.

"No."

She clears her throat. "Look, Rogers is a friend. He's a great guy. I owe him a debt. But if you want me to leave you alone, I will," she tells him firmly.

His brow furrows. It isn't a question, exactly, but she is waiting for an answer. He doesn't know his answer; he doesn't know what he wants. Or why he's here. He frowns, distressed. He thinks back to the returning memories. Steve is a good man. Steve is helpful. Steve wants to help him. He doesn't think Steve can. But where else could he go? He has no one, nothing, except carefully honed skills that are not particularly useful without someone to give him direction.

"I don't know," he whispers.

"Okay," she says slowly, a look of pity briefly passing over her features. "Where did you learn to speak Russian?" She changes the subject, expression curious, perhaps intending to decrease his obvious discomfort.

He shrugs. "My team was often Russian," he replies hesitantly.

"You speak it well," she tells him, in Russian. "Do you remember knowing Steve before the war?" she asks, reverting to English.

"Bits and pieces. I remember when we met," he offers.

"Tell me about it," she says, but it's a request, not an order. She's smiling politely.

"We were kids. Some jerks were beating him up in an alley. I chased them off," he replies, watching the scene play out mentally. It is like watching someone else; he doesn't see himself .

"I really can't imagine anyone beating Steve Rogers up," she admits, amused.

"He was beaten up in a lot of the alleys in Brooklyn. Most of them, in fact," he informs her, some distant memory causing a smile to tug at his lips.

"And you always rescued him?" She smiles; it is a teasing question, not intended to make his chest hurt the way it does.

He shrugs again. "Not much from back then has shaken loose yet." She didn't ask what had shaken loose. She could probably guess.

"You know," she begins, then pauses. "I don't really know you, Barnes, so I'm not trying to be overly familiar. But you should know that Rogers is really happy you're here," she says, hesitantly.

"Yeah," he replies quietly. "I know." He must look troubled, because that look, that pitying look comes back on her face. He frowns at her. He doesn't like being looked at that way.

"So, what did you do after Steve rescued you?" she asks abruptly.

His frown turns from annoyance to concentration. "We… We went back to camp. I teased him about this girl he obviously liked. We went to a bar and drank. Then… He asked me to join him in tracking down and destroying HYDRA bases."

"What did you say?"

"Yes, of course."

She smiles. "Why of course?"

"I'd follow Steve anywhere," he replies, a little surprised at his conviction. That was certainly the feeling he had while he was remembering, though.

She is obviously moved. He is uncomfortable; that seems to be happening a lot lately. He doesn't like this new mission. The others were much easier. He had the tools to do them efficiently, without being subjected to these unquantifiable variables.

"Do you want me to go get him?" she asks quietly.

"No," he says shortly. She looks surprised, and he feels the expectation to explain. He acquiesces to the unspoken prompting after licking his lips and looking around the room intently. "I don't really want him to see me…" he pauses. "Like this."

"James -"

The look on her face makes him angry. He jumps off of the bed, standing over her, hands wrapping around the armrests of her chair. "I don't want him to see me upset, confused, disoriented! I don't want him to hear me screaming when I wake up! I don't want him to feel responsible for me!" His voice is thick, colored with emotion, each word carefully enunciated as he snarls them out.

She is taken aback. Fear is in her eyes. But, bafflingly, she reaches out and gently covers his flesh hand with hers.

_"Oh, my God, it's starting!" Connie said excitedly, pulling his hand in the direction of the show. He allowed himself to be swept along, laughing._

"Steve just wants to help. He'll give you any space that you need," she tells him softly.

He allows himself to be somewhat calmed by what she says. But he is wondering if it would be better to leave. His emotions were not this volatile when he was on his own. Things were somewhat challenging, being alone in the world, but seemed easier. He looks at her warily, assessing if she guesses his thoughts. She is unpredictable and clever. But she won't be able to stop him.


	12. I was confused by the birds and the bees

**A/N: Thanks for all the great feedback! Just so no one things Bucky doesn't know what he's talking about, decimated means the company was reduced by a tenth. It sure seems like they have a lot of prisoners, and Zola and Schmidt are talking about working the men to death, so I don't think that many were initially killed. I could be wrong, of course. Anyway, I'm so glad everyone's enjoying it. There will be 14 chapters total. Please let me know how it's going :)**

**12\. I was confused by the birds and the bees**

He was sitting at his desk. SHIELD had sent over some of his former films, now in digital form. Watching them was painful. He turned off the machine, and stared at his reflection in the black screen. He turned to the file on his left. Opening it, he found information pages on himself and his team from the war. He knew, of course, that it had been seventy years. But it was still a shock to see the "deceased" stamp crossing the pages of so many of his friends. Bucky's said missing in action. He didn't want to look at it. Howard and Peggy were in the file, too. Howard was deceased. Peggy wasn't. There was a phone number. He looked at it. Then he looked at the phone. Then he left the apartment.

The scenery passed by unnoticed as he walked down the street. He didn't really care where he went. He stared distantly into the past, though it felt so recent to him. His world was gone. There was nothing left, nothing recognizable. His friends were gone. Even if he did call Peggy, what would he say? She had to be, what, in her nineties? Late eighties, certainly. She'd lived a long time without him, but he hadn't lived at all. It wasn't like they could chat about the good old days; that's what they were to her. They were much more present to him.

Eventually, he went to a café and had some coffee. He had his sketchbook. It seemed like an age since he'd had time to sketch. Peggy had liked his drawings. Bucky had always encouraged him to draw more. Maybe he should send a picture to Peggy. But how would she react, seeing him again? He'd died while talking to her, essentially. How long had it taken to deal with that? Was it fair of him to go open those old wounds just because he was lonely? It seemed selfish. She'd lived her life. She was lost to him now.

Everyone from his old life was lost to him now. He had to start a new one. He focused on his drawing, hating the despair he felt. It wasn't like him. He had always been hopeful, always expected to solve problems, for himself and for other people. He just wanted to help. But now, he didn't know anyone, didn't have anyone to help. And no one to help him. He didn't want to admit it, but he needed that. He needed something.

"Waiting on the big guy?" the waitress asked, smiling. She was pretty, blue-eyed and blond.

He was startled. "Ma'am?"

"Iron Man. A lot of people eat here just to see him fly by," she explained.

"Right," he replied, looking up at the skyline. "Maybe another time," he said, pulling out money to settle the bill.

"Table's yours as long as you like," she assured him, refilling his coffee. "Nobody's waiting on it. Plus we've got free wireless," she added as she walked away.

"Radio?" he asked, perplexed. She glanced back at him, but didn't reply.

"Ask for her number, you moron," an old man sitting at the next table advised him.

He watched her go, considering the concept. Then he got up and went to the gym. A good workout might get his mind off things.

* * *

The Battle of New York was unpleasant, of course. But it put him somewhere he was comfortable being. He gave orders and fought; sure, it was harder than it had ever been during the war and his allies were legendary, but it was still a battle. It was still a scenario in which he could lead men (and a woman) and protect civilians.

"Ready for another bout?" Thor asked him.

"What, are you getting sleepy?" he replied automatically. The other man looked at him blankly and he felt the despair welling up again. How he wished for one of his men at his side, who would have returned the gibe with a witty retort. Like Bucky would have. He hated himself. Even here, in the heat of battle, he could be distracted by his dead best friend.

* * *

Steve returned to Avenger's Tower. He forced himself not to hurry; Bucky was fine. Bucky was with Natasha. She wouldn't let him leave again. And, if he did leave, she would tell him immediately. He could trust her. Still, it took a great effort of will to keep from running when he finally reached his floor. Until he heard shouting, agonized shouting, and then he did run.

When he swung open the door to his room, and froze. Bucky was standing over Natasha, his expression looking much like had during the end of their fight on the helicarrier. She had taken his hand and he was staring at her, shock written on his face. She seemed very calm, considering her situation. At his intrusion, Bucky looked up sharply, backing away from her quickly, but Natasha kept her eyes on the soldier. He looked at Steve with such intensity it felt like being punched.

"Steve, can we find James here somewhere else to stay, besides your room?" Natasha said. There was strain evident in her voice, but her tone was casual.

"I… I think there are a few empty rooms. I'll ask Tony," he replied hesitantly, watching Bucky, who was leaning back against the wall behind him, the look on his face fading as thoroughly as if he had put on a mask.

Natasha stood up. "I'll go see if he's around. Why don't you fellas see about getting James some clothes that fit?"

"Alright," Steve said, as she slipped passed him and out the door. "Are you okay?" he asked slowly when she had gone.

Bucky laughed bitterly. "Nope," he replied, eyes downcast.

Steve frowned at his friend, disturbed by his laugh. "Yeah, sorry, dumb question. So… Are you up for going to a store to get some of your own clothes?" He remembered Bucky being pretty particular about what he wore. He could see that meticulousness in his friend's mission gear, but not since he had arrived at the tower. Bucky shrugged.

They walked to the nearest store they could. Steve was concerned about how Bucky would do out in the world, and staying close to home seemed like the easiest option. Bucky was wearing jeans with one of Steve's long-sleeved shirts to hide his arm, as well as his own black gloves and boots. The store was two blocks away. Steve was relieved that Bucky did not react to either the elevator ride or the walk. He just kept his eyes on the ground and followed Steve.

"Well, what would you like to get?" Steve asked as they stood in the front of the store. Bucky looked up for the first time and scanned the room quickly. He glanced briefly at Steve, as if for permission, then set off toward the button-down shirts. Steve was pleasantly surprised to find that he was just following Bucky, who was quick and efficient in his choices. He found himself smiling broadly.

"What?" Bucky asked when he noticed. His tone was somewhat irritable, but he looked like he was considering smiling back.

"It's just nice to see you… doing something like you used to," he replied hesitantly.

Bucky stopped, looking at the clothes, then back at him. "I used to do this?"

"Buy clothes? Yeah, most people do. You used to help me with it, though," he explained. His stature had always made clothes shopping challenging. He hadn't really thought about it recently, but it was another thing Bucky had helped him do. He focused on his friend and was surprised to see that he was upset. "What is it?" he asked, bewildered.

"I don't like this," Bucky whispered.

Steve frowned, concerned. "Do you want to go back to the tower?" Bucky nodded wordlessly, not meeting his eye. Steve took the clothes he had selected and paid for them while Bucky waited by the door, looking lost. It hurt to look at him.

Finally, they were back in the tower. They walked in silence down the hallway toward Steve's room. When they turned the corner, there were two figures waiting outside. Steve noticed how Bucky tensed and stopped walking, not quite shifting into a fighting stance, but close. Steve walked ahead quickly.

"Hey, Spangles," Tony called. Natasha was with him.

"Hey, Tony," Steve replied, ignoring the nickname. Bucky had followed him more slowly, looking warily from person to person. "Is there an empty room we can use?"

Tony was looking at Bucky intently, and the latter's eyes were narrowing dangerously. "I don't know, Cap. What do you need it for?" Tony asked provokingly.

Steve glanced at Natasha, who shrugged. "James needs a room," he said firmly.

"Oh, James. Hello, James," Tony said, holding out his hand. Bucky eyed it warily, then took it. They shook and Steve shifted his weight uncomfortably. Tony was unpredictable. He turned back to Steve. "Is James an Avenger?"

Steve swallowed. "No. But he has nowhere else to go."

Tony looked at him intently. "Can we talk alone, Cap?"

"Come on, James," Natasha said to Bucky, and led him down the hall. He was glowering, and glanced back at Steve once, fear flickering over his face briefly. There was no doubt in Steve's mind that he would take off the first chance he got.


	13. Forgetting if I meant it

**A/N: Thank for you for all the responses to the last chapter! I admit I was a little worried about it... This is the second to last chapter, so I hope you're all ready! :) Not sure if I'll be able to leave these guys alone or have to write another sequel yet, though.**

**13\. Forgetting if I meant it**

"Don't worry. Tony's a bit rough, but he's a good man," Natasha reassures him. He glances back at the two men standing outside Steve's door and wonders why he is here. He follows Natasha down the hallway to the common room. "Are you hungry?" she asks when they reach the kitchen.

He considers. If he is going to leave, it would be good to have eaten first. "Yeah."

"Okay. Well, Rogers is really the only cook, but I'll see what I can find," she tells him.

He watches her impassively while she rummages around the room. He is tense, standing forward on his toes as if he intends to actually start running. That would be obvious; Steve could catch him. If he goes, he won't want to be found easily. He glances back down the hall. Steve and Tony seem to be arguing. He can tell by the set in Steve's shoulders that he is upset and being stubborn. His brow furrows at the realization. Steve was always stubborn, he recalls vaguely.

Natasha puts a plate on the counter in front of him. He looks at it dubiously, but decides he can't afford to be picky. He sits down slowly, aware that she is watching him. He eats. It's not as good as breakfast, but he finds that he is very hungry.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying it," she says dryly, looking amused.

"Hungry," he explains shortly.

"Thanks… Well, Barnes, it's been fun, but I'll be seeing you," she says, and walks away. He watches her go, perplexed. He straightens abruptly when a weight settles down next to him.

"Well, Bucky, it looks like you're going to stay with us for a while," the man called Tony says amiably. "Let's try not to punch through any walls or anything, okay?"

He looks up at Steve, who is standing on the other side of Tony. His face speaks an apology. He turns back to the man. "I'll see what I can do," he replies.

Tony smirks. "Great. I'd love to take a closer look at that arm of yours in my lab."

He frowns. His arm is covered right now. He clenches his metal fingers into a fist. "Because it's like your armor?" he asks softly.

"The footage I've seen makes it seem a little better. Well, functionally. Mine's prettier," he says with a confident smile.

"I don't know," he replies thoughtfully, stretching his arm out and inspecting it. "I have this nice red star for decoration."

Steve laughs out loud, looking surprised. He glances up at him and smiles. Tony is amused as well, but doesn't laugh. "Well, we may have to compare those later," he says, and claps him on the back as he stands. He tenses, fists clenching, but otherwise doesn't react. Tony heads out of the room. "Show him his quarters, Captain," he calls back to them.

"You ready?" Steve asks, still smiling.

"Sure," he replies.

The room Tony provided is the closest to Steve's, and is similarly sized. There is only a bed in it currently. Steve helps him put his clothes in the closet. "He seemed familiar," he says, hesitantly.

"Yeah? I don't think you've met him before. We knew his father during the war, though," Steve suggests, watching him.

He nods, but then shakes his head. "I don't remember," he admits.

"That's okay," Steve says, smiling. "Well, I'm going to leave you alone. You know where to find me if you need anything," he adds, but seems unwilling to move.

"Thank you," he replies, surveying the room.

Steve nods and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. He is getting tired. It is growing late and he wants to sleep. He is grateful that he doesn't have to ask Steve, that he seems to sense his desire to be alone. He lies down on the bed experimentally. It is not uncomfortable. Like most of the beds he had been using lately, it is probably too comfortable. Still, he is able to fall asleep after a few moments.

* * *

_"This is Howard. Howard, Bucky," Steve said._

_ "Ah, so this is why Captain America needed my help," Howard replied, shaking Bucky's hand._

_ "Well, I wouldn't say needed," Bucky corrected amiably._

_ "So, you two have been friends since you were kids?" Howard asked, leaning against the bar. Steve stood nearby, but was clearly scanning the room for someone else. For Peggy._

_ "Yeah, back in Brooklyn I used to have to save him from a lot of bullies," Bucky said._

_ "He probably won't need that now," Howard laughed._

_ "No, I suppose not," he replied, giving his friend a sidelong glance. "I guess that means I can sit back and let him save me."_

_ "That probably won't keep him as busy as it kept you."_

_ Bucky laughed. "No, hopefully not."_

* * *

_He was awakened. It was cold. His metal arm felt as though it would burn his flesh with the cold. Stepping out of the stasis chamber was pleasant; it was warm in the room beyond. He stood patiently in front of it, waiting for orders. Some men came forward. They were masked, and spoke to him in Russian. He understood a few words, enough to do as they told him. He dressed in his mission gear and was told to wait on a stool in a different room. He did._

_ At some point, an unfamiliar civilian man came into the room. He wasn't wearing any armor or a mask, at any rate. Not even a lab coat. He held a white box in trembling fingers, and looked at the soldier as if he wanted to bolt. The soldier glanced his way, then went back to staring straight ahead. The man hesitantly came forward and set his box near the soldier's feet. He cleared his throat. The soldier turned to look at him expectantly._

_ "They want me to paint… it," the man said falteringly._

_ He supposed "they" referred to the man who usually gave him orders. He didn't know what "it" meant. The other man seemed to be waiting for a response, watching him carefully. "Okay," he said at last._

_ The man looked relieved, and stooped to open up the little box. The soldier watched with detached interest as paints and brushes were revealed. The man came forward and stood close to him, glanced at him nervously, then began to measure his metal shoulder. This took a while. When he had finished, he began to paint. The soldier waited, looking ahead again. Time passed._

_ "There!" the man said, smiling. The soldier looked down, and saw a large red star on his arm. The man seemed to be waiting for some kind of approval, so he nodded. Then the man packed up his paints and left him alone._

* * *

_Eventually, someone came into the room where he sat. The little man he knew, in the lab coat. He inspected the painter's handiwork and declared it to be perfect. The soldier didn't ask perfect for what. He led the soldier out of the room and briefed him on his mission. Then he was loaded into a van and considered how best to accomplish the task while they drove._

_ The target was a man in his late forties, one hundred seventy pounds, five nine. He wouldn't be alone. It did not matter, he was told, whether anyone with him was killed at the same time. Some of his missions stipulated that he must only kill one person. Others required the whole party. It was strange for this to be left up to his discretion. It did have to appear as an accident, though. The little man was very adamant about that. _

_ The vehicle stopped at the top of a hill. He got out and looked down at the road below. It was a good vantage point. He ordered the men, in Russian, to go park somewhere else, and walked down to the road. The target would be coming along shortly, driving in a two-door vehicle. The most effective way to make it appear accidental would be to cause the car to malfunction. Shooting its tires would work, but traces of his bullet might be found and arouse suspicion. He walked along the road, staring intently at the surface, unhurried. When he found what he sought, he returned to the top of the hill._

_ He stretched himself out flat on the grassy surface so he wouldn't be detected. It was unfortunate that there weren't any trees nearby. He waited patiently. Several cars went by. At each one, he tensed and readied himself, but they were not the one that had been described. He had set up his rifle and looked carefully through the scope at each one, to be sure. He did not want to have to chase the target down. That would introduce too many variables._

_ At last, the vehicle appeared. He identified the man driving. A woman was with him. He didn't see anyone else in the car. He carefully fitted the nail into the barrel of his weapon, so it would still fire. He wasn't sure how it would affect the accuracy of his shot, though, so he waited until they were just about to pass him. Then he fired. The nail struck the tire, if not exactly where he intended, at least close to it. The driver lost control and the car tumbled off of the road, down the hill on the other side._

_ He slowly got to his feet and walked down to the upside-down car. There was no one else on the road, but he had to make sure his mission was complete before anyone came along and tried to help the target. He paused, listening, when he was a few feet away from the twisted metal. They had been going fast. He considered what he should do to make any further actions appear accidental. He picked up a piece of glass from the ground with his metal hand and continued to approach._

_ There were sounds inside. He wrenched open the door. Both of them were alive, but injured and not entirely conscious. He inspected them, assessing whether they would die from their wounds or not. Then he bent and slit the man's throat, with as little precision as he could manage. An accident. It didn't matter if the woman survived. She hadn't seen him._


	14. I was alone falling free, trying my best

**A/N: So, final chapter. I really appreciate all the reviews, followers, and favorites. You guys are great. I hope you all like it. Let me know if you want me to keep going with this. I think there will be more action in the present, rather than just flashbacks, if it continues. But I do like how this one ends :)**

**14\. I was alone, falling free, trying my best not to forget**

Steve was awakened by a hoarse scream. He scrambled out of his chair, where he'd been dozing, and opened his door. He hadn't been asleep for very long, and was disoriented. He forgot, as he sometimes did, his size and his momentum almost caused him to fall when he hit the tile of the hallway. Still, he caught himself and hurried to Bucky's room. Unlike before, there had been only one scream. There was silence now. It worried him more than continued screaming would have.

"Bucky! James!" he called, pounding on the door. There was no response, but he found that the door was unlocked.

It was good that the room was unfurnished. Everything in it had been upset and thrown around the room. Bucky was standing, crouched, in the corner by the window, looking almost feral in the moonlight. His bright blue eyes were piercing and Steve was strongly reminded of when he chased the Soldier across the rooftop after he'd shot Fury.

"You need to let me go, Steve."

The voice was calm, but didn't sound like Bucky. It sent a chill down his spine. "Why?" he asked, his anguish obvious in his tone.

"I can't stay here."

"Why not?"

Bucky leaned forward, growing agitated, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I don't want to hurt anyone else," he said softly, despairingly.

"You don't have to hurt anyone," Steve began, confused.

"But I will," Bucky snapped.

"Please, tell me what's going on," he begged, stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him.

Bucky leaned back, away from the moonlight. He folded his arms over his chest, but was soon moving them again, restless. "I remembered more," he said at last.

"What did you remember?"

"Meeting Howard Stark during the war." Bucky was silent, eyes unfocused. Steve waited, watching his friend. "And… seeing him after the war."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked, brow furrowed. A sense of dread filled him.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath. "What do you think I mean?" he asked.

Steve ran his hand through his hair, and began to pace. "It wasn't an accident?" he responded after a few moments.

"Nope."

"Does Tony know?" he wondered. Bucky just looked at him. "He might not let you stay when he finds out."

Bucky laughs, a short bark born of bitterness. "Might not?"

"It wasn't your fault," Steve asserts.

"Yes, it was," he replied flatly. "It was my mission. It might have turned out differently had it been anyone else's."

"Bucky…" he said, voice breaking.

"I don't know what you expected, Steve. I don't think there's any coming back from this. I told you: Bucky isn't here anymore. I wish he was. But it's just me: a soldier who doesn't want to fight anymore."

Steve blinked rapidly, hating the dampness in his eyes. He frowned and stood taller. "I don't care. You're my friend. It is my fault what happened to you. I will make it right, any way that I can," he said resolutely.

Bucky looked at him fixedly, conflicting emotions flickering in his eyes. Then he slowly slid down the wall until he was sitting, legs pulled up against him. He wrapped his arms around them and rested his head back against the wall, watching him. Steve moved forward cautiously and sat down next to him.

"I don't want to remember anymore," Bucky said, barely a whisper, staring up at the ceiling.

"I know, Buck, I know," Steve replied, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

They were silent for a few minutes. "I don't know how to do this," Bucky spoke a little louder this time, turning his gaze to stare at his knees, drawn up against his chest.

"Do what?"

"Live."

Steve sighed deeply, a catch in his throat, and squeezed Bucky's shoulder. "It's hard. I know. You have to find something to live for."

"What are you living for?"

Steve considered, wanting to give his friend a completely honest answer. To show he knew some of what Bucky was going through. "I… I don't know. I fought with the Avenger's because it was the right thing to do. I worked for SHIELD because it was Peggy's. I served because that was familiar, even if it was different. But now it's gone. I came here because I had nowhere else to go. Because I couldn't find you," Steve added softly. Bucky looked at him sharply. "Seeing you again, after all this time… Finally being given the chance to make up for leaving you at the bottom of that ravine… It was something to live for," he explained, smiling sadly.

"And now you've found me," Bucky said emotionlessly, still looking at him.

"Yeah."

"But you can't help me."

"You know I don't believe that. I _won't_ believe that," he replied vehemently.

Bucky sighed, but the haunted look in his eyes was fading. "HYDRA did quite a number on me, my friend," he admitted, looking out the window.

"Maybe that's what we can live for."

"What?"

"Making HYDRA pay for what they did to you," Steve said, coldly.

Bucky looked at him, cocking his head in that way that was so familiar. "That doesn't sound like you, Steve."

He shrugged. "It's what I did after I lost you the first time," he admitted.

"Did you?" He shook his head. "And how did that turn out for you?"

"Well, I thought I was successful," Steve grumbled, frowning. "Until recent events."

"I wouldn't call being frozen solid for seventy years successful," Bucky said. Steve was surprised to notice a hint of teasing in his tone.

"I'm referring to before that part, Buck," Steve replied, with mock offense.

"The part where you were brave enough to infiltrate an enemy prisoner of war camp by yourself but were too scared to ask out a girl? That part?"

Steve laughed, and was delighted that Bucky chuckled, too, though the sound was shaky. "I'm pretty sure you appreciated that part."

"No, she wasn't interested in me," Bucky said dismissively.

"Bucky," Steve said, exasperated but smiling. "I think you need some sleep. You're obviously confused."

Bucky opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden buzzing interrupted him. He looked very perplexed, the humor that had so briefly lit up his face fading as if it had never been. Steve cursed the phone in his pocket, and whoever it was who felt he needed to hear from them right now. He sighed and pulled out the device, typing a quick response, and put it away.

"What was that?" Bucky asked quietly, eyes wide.

"It was Sharon. This girl who was my neighbor in DC. And apparently also my protection detail from SHIELD," Steve told him, glad when his friend's face relaxed.

"You had a girl as your protection detail?" Bucky asked, looking him up and down, frowning in disbelief.

"Yes," Steve replied, smiling.

"Do you think she did a good job?"

"Well, pretty good. No one hurt me when she was around," he clarified. "Only when she was busy elsewhere."

"Hmm." Bucky considered. "Maybe she has a friend," he suggested after a moment, putting his arms behind his head as he leaned back. Steve laughed.

**de·mil·i·ta·rize**

_verb_ \\(ˌ)dē-ˈmi-lə-tə-ˌrīz, di-\

: to remove weapons and military forces from (an area)

**Full Definition of DEMILITARIZE**

transitive verb

1

a **:** to do away with the military organization or potential of

b **:** to prohibit (as a zone or frontier area) from being used for military purposes

2

**:** to rid of military characteristics or uses

— **de·mil·i·tar·i·za·tion** _noun_


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